Dormia (39 page)

The general nodded. "Elisa Persplexy."

T
HE IRON PILLOW
sat on a narrow street in the Trunk District, which was what most people called the very upscale neighborhood that surrounded the base or trunk of the Founding Tree. From the outside, the Iron Pillow didn't look particularly impressive. It was a small building made of white stone with a low-slung slate roof. A sign hung in front, with the following diagram on it:

"What is this place?" asked Alfonso.

"It's called the Iron Pillow, the official meeting hall for the Royal Order of Sleeping Knights," explained the general matter-of-factly. "You'll see."

The general opened the door and strode inside. Alfonso and Hill hurried to keep up with him. Inside, the Iron Pillow was grand and imposing. It was a cavernous room with high, vaulted ceilings, and illuminated by many flickering candelabras. In the dim light, Alfonso could see dozens of men and women dressed much like the general. They wore knee-high leather boots, black wool shirts and pants, dark green velvet hats, and matching velvet capes. As soon as the general entered the room, someone yelled, "On your feet!" Instantly, everyone stood at attention and saluted the general.

"As you were," said the general.

Slowly, the knights in the room returned to their activities. Most of them were playing strange games that involved incredible levels of skill and concentration. In one game, a young knight with red hair was throwing small darts through a keyhole at a distance of twenty feet. Alfonso watched as the knight hit his target six times in a row. In another game, two older knights were stacking toothpicks on top of one another vertically—pointy-end to pointy-end. Currently, their skinny tower of toothpicks appeared to be almost ten feet high. Yet another game was being played by a group of five knights who each took turns sifting through an enormous pile of hay. Alfonso eventually learned that this game was called needle in the haystack and the object was to find a small needle that was buried within the haystack as quickly as possible. Most of the knights were able to do this in less than five seconds.

"This place is unbelievable!" said Alfonso.

The general nodded proudly and led Alfonso and Hill to the far end of the room, by a long wooden bar. Here three different bartenders were busy pouring frothy mugs of Dormian grog. Right away, a bartender handed the general three mugs. "Drink up," said the general as he handed one mug to Hill and another to Alfonso. "This stuff will make you sleep like a baby tonight."

Alfonso took a small sip and examined his environs more closely. All along the entire back wall of the room there were dozens of long wooden shelves containing hundreds of slender glass tubes that appeared to be empty. Each tube was marked with an inscription and a date written both in English and in Dormian hieroglyphs. One read:
Meganka Craiglovskov—October of 1278—five points.
A second read:
Konrad Grumaller—December of 2776—seven points.
A third read:
Johno Loxoc—May of 4901—nine points.
One glass tube, which was on a shelf of its own, stood out. Its inscription read:
^*
Aldwyn Blodeuwedd (G. S.)—January 4523—twenty-one points.

"What's with all those empty tubes?" asked Alfonso.

"Oh they're not empty," replied the general with a smile. "Each tube contains a collection of split hairs. You see, the ultimate game here at the Iron Pillow is called splitting hairs. It's quite a simple game actually. The contestant is given a case containing eight daggers. Meanwhile, each of the three bartenders plucks exactly eight hairs from his head. Then, all at once, the three bartenders toss their plucked hairs up into the air so that there are twenty-four different wisps of hair spinning about. We do this in a special room, which is equipped with a very large fan, and this causes the hairs to hover or float
in the air. And as these hairs float about, the contestant must toss his or her eight daggers and try to split as many hairs as possible. The hairs must be split lengthwise, from top to bottom, otherwise it doesn't count. The record belongs to Aldwyn Blodeuwedd, the last Great Sleeper to arrive in Somnos. He scored twenty-one points by splitting twenty-one different hairs."

"Wait a minute," said Alfonso. "How could he split twenty-one hairs if he had only eight daggers?"

"A good question," replied the general. "He did this by doing double and triple splits. Basically, he split multiple hairs in a single throw. It is very difficult to do. You have to wait until two or three hairs line up perfectly and then throw the dagger in such a way that it splits all the hairs in the course of its trajectory. It's incredibly rare that someone is able to pull this off. In my lifetime I saw only one person pull it off—"

"Who was that?" interjected Alfonso.

"It was my younger brother, Johno Loxoc," explained the general. "He scored nine points, which means he achieved seven single splits and one double split. He did that almost twenty years ago, just before he left Somnos to become a Wanderer. Johno was very good with a knife. The only people who've beaten his score are Great Sleepers."

"You mean like Aldwyn Blodeuwedd?" inquired Alfonso.

"Yes," said the general. "Blodeuwedd scored three triple splits. He also scored a quadruple split, which is the only one ever recorded in history. You can see for yourself. His score card is up on the wall."

Alfonso turned around and noticed a wooden plaque commemorating Blodeuwedd's achievement.

 

Aldwyn Blodeuwedd

The general set down his mug of Dormian grog and called out to the bartender. "Barkeeps," said the General, "I want each of you to pluck eight hairs—this young lad is going to have a go at it."

The oldest of the three bartenders, who was nearly bald, began grumbling in Dormian.

"He's unhappy because he says that he's barely got eight hairs left," explained the general with a laugh. "But I told him to cheer up—his hairs might become part of history!"

"They're falling out anyway," quipped another bartender who was busy plucking his hairs.

Eventually, all three bartenders did as they were told and stood waiting behind the bar. Meanwhile, as onlookers noticed what was going on, excitement began to build. A shout rang out from the far side of the room.

"Excuse me, General Loxoc!" yelled a tall, skinny knight. "Excuse me, sir!"

The entire room fell silent.

"Yes?" said the general.

"Is it true that the young guest is the Great Sleeper?"

"Well," said the general with a slight smile, "we are here to resolve that question."

"I knew it!" hollered the skinny knight excitedly. "Will he try to break Blodeuwedd's record?"

"Yes," said the general. He addressed the group in a loud voice: "As you all know, our last Great Sleeper—Aldwyn Blodeuwedd—managed to achieve twenty-one points back in January of 4523, almost four hundred years ago. Of course, his case was exceptional because he was a Great Sleeper. The record for a Dormian knight belongs to my brother, Johno Loxoc, who scored nine points. If this young lad is indeed the Great Sleeper, the ancient laws say that he will be able to match or even exceed the feat of the previous Great Sleeper. After all, the only person who can outdo a Great Sleeper is another Great Sleeper."

"That doesn't seem quite fair," interjected a young lady knight, who was standing nearby. "Blodeuwedd was exceptionally good—even as Great Sleepers go."

"I'm afraid, my dear, it is not a question of fair," replied the general. "Rules are rules and customs are customs—they must be followed. I don't envy Alfonso's task. Yet somehow, in the past, Great Sleepers have always risen to the occasion and equaled or outdone their predecessors—and so too will Alfonso if he is the real thing."

The room erupted with noise. The knights were suddenly cheering, arguing, laughing, snorting, betting, and hoisting their mugs of Dormian grog into the air.

"This is ridiculous," said Hill. He looked angry. "My nephew arrived with a Dormian bloom! What more proof does he need? This is a bush-league operation, if you ask me. I'm his uncle Hill Persplexy, US Air Force, retired, and you've got my word that this boy here is the Great Sleeper!"

"Just because he carried the bloom doesn't prove that he is the Great Sleeper," replied the general sternly. "Once, many centuries ago, a man posing as a Great Sleeper found his way into Loptos and then burned the city to the ground. I've already told you the particulars of this story so I won't repeat myself. The point is, the arrival of a Great Sleeper is a time of considerable danger for Dormians. It is one of the few times we open our mountain gates and allow a stranger to enter. The danger, of course, is not only that the Great Sleeper may have been followed but that he or she may in fact be an imposter. You understand, then, that we have no choice but to test Alfonso. I profoundly hope that he succeeds."

By the time that the general had finished explaining this piece of history, the knights had all migrated into an adjoining room. Hill, Alfonso, the general, and the three bartenders all followed them. This room was quite long and its walls, floor,
and ceiling were all made of soft wood that was scarred with thousands and thousands of dents and grooves that had been made by thrown daggers. In the corner, two knights began operating a large, hand-cranked fan that blew air up toward the ceiling. The fan creaked and groaned as it blew. The general placed his arm around Alfonso and led him out into the center of the room. As they walked, the general whispered into his ear: "I want you to take your time and be very careful. It is crucial that you pass this test. Failure to do so will result in immediate expulsion from Dormia. Do you understand?" Alfonso nodded soberly. Seconds later, one of the knights emerged from the crowd carrying an old wooden box, which he presented to Alfonso. Alfonso opened the box and discovered a set of eight long, elegant, silver daggers.

"Barkeeps!" yelled the general. "Do you have your hairs ready?"

The bartenders nodded and held up their right hands, each of which was bunched in a tight fist.

"Well then, I formally authorize you to launch them!"

In one perfectly synchronized movement, all three bartenders unclenched their fists and shook loose their plucked hairs. Twenty-four tiny hairs wafted up toward the ceiling. The hairs were so light that they simply dangled and fluttered about in the air like particles of dust. And, indeed, they were so incredibly thin that it was possible to see them only when they were directly under the light of one of the candelabras that hung overhead.

Alfonso threw his first three daggers so quickly that hardly anyone had a chance to enjoy a sip of grog or even take a breath of air. The daggers shot through the air with tremendous speed
and then—
twanggggg!
—lodged themselves firmly into the soft wood of the ceiling. There was a gasp from the crowd. Hill watched on with great nervousness. He knew, from the look on Alfonso's face, that his nephew was firmly in the hypnogogic state. "Take your time, dear boy," muttered Hill. "Take your time. You've passed all those tests before—remember Fort Krasnik?" Alfonso squinted his eyes fiercely and then, an instant later, he threw another four daggers.

"Wait!" yelled the general. "We should inspect the blades to see how many hairs he has split before we go on. That is the custom after the seventh throw."

One of the bartenders emerged with a folding ladder. He propped it against the wall, and then scurried up to the top rung. The bartender then reached into his vest pocket, produced a magnifying glass, and inspected each of the seven blades stuck in the ceiling.

"Well?" yelled the general.

"The lad has done well," yelled the bartender as he scurried down the ladder. He walked over to the wall at the far end of the room where a small chalkboard hung. The bartender picked up a small piece of chalk and wrote Alfonso's score on the board.

 

Score